


The Crimson Rose

by shadowsinger001



Series: The Crimson Rose Series [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Brothels, Dark Fantasy, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, High Fantasy, Kings & Queens, Love Triangles, Magic, Major Original Character(s), Multi, Murder, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, POV Multiple, Poison, Politics, Series, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Throne of Glass-esque, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28561311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsinger001/pseuds/shadowsinger001
Summary: Eighteen, vulgar, and utterly orphaned in a snow-laden city, Krea Norik's ragtag life is torn away from her after a chance encounter with a gold-eyed assassin. After following him away from the City of Death, she finds herself navigating politics, womanhood, and the complexities of love.Close by, Prince Rowan Ashdown is thrust into the field by his father with one task: crush a prominent rebellion leader loved by the common folk. Held hostage by his own blood, Rowan struggles with the prospect of slaughter for those he loves at the cost of his sanity.When their paths cross and all hell breaks loose, secrets beyond their imagining begin to unravel, guiding them on an unimaginable path, and exposing countless darker forces at play.•• I started building this fantasy world well over a decade ago and finally finished this novel about three/four years ago. It's the first in a series, and this one is complete and stands at about 550 pages! I have lots of maps, sketches, etc. that I might post.For reference, if you like Throne of Glass/ACOTAR, or Game of Thrones, it might be your vibe! :)Please, DO NOT REPOST. THIS IS A COMPLETE WORK --> I am posting in increments. ••
Series: The Crimson Rose Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092626
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave comments! If people are interested enough, I'll post the entire thing. For now, I've included a few chapters for preview!

**Part I: Rebirth**

Chapter I

_Krea_

_ Reborn. _ She felt as though she had been reborn. 

For the first time in many days, Krea Norik found herself grinning as she ran through the streets again, her legs becoming one with the wind, her mind and body finally liberated.

For the past week, she’d been stuffed into the reeking prisons of Phimela only to knock out a guard, bribe another, and escape  _ yet again. _

She’d become a regular in the prisons, mostly for petty thievery, but she needed more than anything: to eat. Most of the Capital was starving. And the other bit, flourishing. She happened to be a member of the unfortunates.

And so, Krea found that sometimes, when a wealthy, unwary victim passed her by, her hand would “slip” and suddenly she’d be holding something of value. 

In most cases, her victim wouldn’t notice until it was far too late and she’d have a warm meal in her belly. In some cases, like the occurrence a week ago in the market, Krea’s wandering hands found themselves in the pockets of a city guard. 

Nowadays, this incident occurred far too often. Even the Captain of the Guard grew sick of seeing her. Whenever a guard would shove her into his office, he would glance once before howling in anger and passing a sentence without hearing her crime. 

She was always sentenced to “Life in prison,” regardless of the severity of her sins.

…Until she escaped.  _ Every. Single. Time. _

And day by day, Krea Norik grew into something of a spectacle. An orphan girl with a talent for ending up in the prisons, and a talent for getting out. A talent for provoking the guards, and a talent for surviving to tell the tale.

And even though the little girl with the heart of a lion bounded across the streets in glee, she felt alone. She was out of the prison. But the city was the same. 

It was dead.

Suddenly, a flurry of snow drifted down and Krea quickly found herself in need of something,  _ anything, _ warm. Until, of course, she heard the screams.

The entire market flooded with the high pitched noises, and Krea’s blood curdled. She froze, and on pure instinct, blended into the crowd, dragging her black hood over her eyes. 

Like the stars in the sky dying out, one by one every voice in the market quieted. And the men, women, and children lined up slowly, each of them desperate to survive what would come shortly--death.

In fear, brother turned against sister, and husband against wife. Mothers pushed their children before them as if to sacrifice them to the gods, as if to plead for their own lives over their children’s. Here, family didn’t matter. Only you did. Krea took up a spot behind a small boy as she saw the tall figures approach.

_ Nightingales. _ The Emperor’s elite guard.

They swept through the marketplace, their black armor glinting angrily, their swords drawn. The sounds of their armored boots hitting the ground betrayed all reason. 

They sounded like an army.

But there were only twelve.

Krea froze in place, her eyes fixed on the ground. 

She’d been in this situation before. She’d seen it happen before. The Nightingales would appear and disappear, leaving a river of bodies in their wake. Like the many times before, the Nightingales were here to slaughter.

The expressions on their slanted faces was confirmation, and Krea shivered as the boy in front of her squealed.

The Nightingale grabbed the boy’s arm, pulling him to his chest as if embracing him as one would a lover. But there was no love in his eyes. Only cold, hard hatred.

No one screamed when the boy crumpled to the ground, his black blood spraying into the crowd. Krea swore a drop landed on her cheek. But she didn’t dare check.

A moment passed before a woman cried out, her composure gone. She rushed towards her son, who had bled out on the floor. Before she could touch him, an arrow flew clean through her throat.

The slaughter continued for hours, each time a man was cut down, another would cry for him and he, too, would die. It continued mercilessly in this routine for the better part of an hour, until the last man died. 

No one screamed for him. He had no family, no friends. He died alone.

Satisfied, the Nightingales stalked off, their eyes on the horizon, and not the floor.

But Krea’s eyes were pinned to her boots, and to the floor beneath. There, she saw a river of blood staining the cobblestone road. She saw a severed head and a bloody arm, reaching for the child. 

She didn’t move. Could not move.

For the next half hour, no one dared to breathe. When they were sure the Nightingales were gone and the resounding thunder of their boots no longer resonated through the market, everything returned to its former glory.

…As if nothing had just happened.

Sick to the stomach, Krea stalked into the crowd, her bloody boots leaving prints in her wake. She headed down the road, her legs aching, her heart heavy. Around her the snow came down harder, blanketing the food carts that lined the streets and mingling with the bloody roads. 

The city was bland, everything painted in sandy grays and browns. The buildings were made of moldy wood, and the entire area reeked of urine. The only hints of color in the city were the faded bloodstains on the roads and the walls.

In the dead city, even the people seemed sucked of life. They roamed the streets somberly, eyes hollowed from exhaustion. Not a single one smiled, and not a single one seemed to enjoy living. The Emperor’s noxious influence was not lacking in his capital city.

But there was an anomaly. 

Krea Norik’s heart was aflame, and her eyes were wild. She was untamed, and would die before bowing to the Emperor.

She meandered through the steady stream of people with unusual grace, her eyes intent on a building in the distance. She slipped through people until her boots came to a screeching halt in front of a large tavern, plastered with the name: “Seaside Inn.”

The coin purse at her side clicked against her thigh, its contents precious and fleeting.

A hearty chatter picked up as she slung the door open. If anyone twisted their heads to look at the girl, they quickly looked away. She was armed to the teeth in weapons, her breasts hidden underneath the folds of her cloak. To them, she was a man with an appetite for trouble.

In fear, they fed her none.

She strode into the room, the air around her cold and suffocating. She smelled like hell; of that she was sure.

The ends of her lip twitched in a grin at the power she held over these men. If they knew she was an eighteen-year-old girl, they would not treat her with such respect.

Krea strode coolly to the end of the room where the innkeeper had been watching her with fearful eyes. She sent him a feral grin, and he jumped. A small part of her smiled at the goosebumps that peaked along his skin.

“I’m here to see Elrin,” she said softly, making sure to flash her teeth. He nodded quickly and she flicked out a black coin from her coin purse. He bit it, and satisfied with its authenticity, led her out of the main room. 

He guided her into a bedroom, where a small bed was placed in the corner. The man lifted the hollow bed with ease, revealing a staircase underneath. 

“You’ll find him downstairs,” he said hurriedly, his legs shaking oh-so-slightly as she stalked by him, her cloak brushing his arm. He jumped back and Krea snorted.

She jogged down the wooden stairs, taking three at a time, until she reached a large room. Lazy smoke spiraled into her view. In the room, everyone was cloaked. Some drank, and others smoked. Some sat with women on their laps, while others were gambling.

It was hardly the place for a person to be. Gods, it was hardly the place for a woman of her age to be. But this was Phimela and no one gave a second thought to age.

“Hey there. Join us for a game, will ye?”

Krea traced the voice to the old man in a nearby chair and snarled at him loudly enough that the entire room heard. He immediately closed his mouth, choosing instead to count the throwing knives she had strapped at her waist.

And damn her to hell, Krea’s short temper got the better of her. She stalked to his chair and glared at him, further infuriated when he sent her a drunken smile.

Krea dug her hands into either side of his chair, watching as his tired, intoxicated eyes roamed over her too-close body. They landed on her breasts. 

The old man’s eyes simmered with shock, which subsided quickly as he shot her a sultry grin.

“I didn’t realize a new shipment of whores arrived. When did they start dressing the women in men’s-”

Krea didn’t let him finish his sentence as her fist flew into his jaw. He sealed his bloody lips quickly, not even trying to rise from the chair he’d fallen off of.

“And who do we have here?” A familiar voice said at Krea’s back. She spun around, her eyes snapping onto the broad man behind her. He was heavily built and armed to the teeth.

“Elrin?”

A small noise gurgled from the fallen man’s lips but he remained with his cheek on the floor.

“That would be me. Though, I am curious. I’d like to know how you found this place.” His voice was rough in a way that her blood boiled, begging to rise to the hidden challenge in his words. Krea sized him up, her eyes not betraying her. She’d been tracking him for weeks, and… he seemed like a worthy opponent.

“I have business with you.”

“Show me.” His eyes lit with a voracious hunger, and the fire grew stronger as she flicked the black coin from earlier into his palm.

“Let’s talk somewhere more… private,” she said, locking her eyes with his. He nodded eagerly, the little black coin in his hand proving that the girl before him was worth more than she seemed.

He led her into a private room, shutting the door before sitting on the chair behind his desk.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. 

He was truly curious, if the hunger in his voice said anything. A favor coin like hers was impossible to come by. “Is it an original, or passed down?” She fingered the cool coin, greedy to keep it.

But Krea wanted her reward. That coin was worth a small army. And he had no right to ask questions. He was put here to serve, and she would not leave the room without claiming what was hers.

“I believe that you don’t get to be the one asking questions,” Krea said coldly, propping her feet up on his desk. “So shut your mouth.”

He wasn’t fooled by her smart-assed remarks, but she was right. He had no right to learn where it came from. 

“Whaddaya want for it?” he asked, his fingers running over the smooth black coin she’d laid on the table. 

“A vial of nightweed. And mountain-grain paste.”

“ _ Pick one _ ,” he snarled. “A favor coin for  _ a _ favor.”

Krea was no fool. The coin was worth several vials of nightweed, and pounds of mountain-grain paste. But the man was greedy and had severely underestimated her. Besides, she was growing impatient and he’d already taken up too much of her time.

“Show me them.”

He disappeared for the briefest of moments before returning with two vials. The larger one was filled with a paste of a pale golden color, like her skin. The smaller one was filled with tiny, jagged black leaves, the razor-sharp tips lined in red.

She needed them both. She was already running out of the black  _ favor coins _ she kept at her side. She’d had them for five years now, and her stock was fleeting.

She’d received the coins from an old friend she’d met. A friend that had saved her from a lusty man in the alleyways of Phimela when she was thirteen. When he saw the cause of the attack, the strange marks on her face, he pressed the coins into her hand and told her where to find the paste. It would help her cover the strange markings, he’d promised. And it had. She’d never asked where he found the coins. She was now running out of them, and would no longer be able to buy the paste.

The Nightweed, on the other hand, was a notorious poison--the hardest to harvest. It only grew for a week each year, and it was tough to find. It always came in handy at some point.

She  _ needed _ both.

Krea watched the man intently, and seeing as he had no plans of revoking his words, reached for her throwing knives. She grabbed one and began spinning it lazily between her fingers. The man watched with keen interest until, of course, it went flying at him. 

As expected, the knife knocked the coin out of his palm, and it clambered to the floor. Krea scooped it up in one fluid motion, her face alight with a wicked grin as she snapped to her feet.

“ _ Bitch _ ,” the Elrin hissed, his chair falling to the floor as he lunged for her. She sidestepped easily, his clumsy body falling to the ground. While he squirmed to get up, Krea snatched the vials and stuffed them into her pockets. She hopped over his body, and ran for the door.

“Come back here, thief!” Elrin screamed behind her. She heard him clamber to his feet, and watched as his reddened face began to shout orders at some men. The entire room stared in wonder as Krea fled out the door, her body moving faster than light.

She was flying again. 

She ran up the stairs with lightning speed, her legs carrying her on the wind. She kicked open the tavern doors, and sprinted out into the chilly air where snow was now pummeling to the ground.

Four men were in hot pursuit, their swords thunking against their hips. They were faster than Krea, but she was lighter.

Krea scaled the nearest building, her boots sending tile flying towards the men beneath her as they tried to follow. A larger chunk of rock dislodged, knocking one of the men below unconscious. The snow was coming down harder now, and Krea knew running on the roof was a death sentence.

But she did it anyways. She did whatever was necessary to survive.

The remaining three men clambered up onto the roof, drawing several, nasty-looking weapons. The first one slipped on the icy roof, falling not enough to kill, but to damage. The second one swung for her, but she grabbed a fistful of snow and threw it into his eyes.

“Take that, asshole!” she shouted, probably the most childish thing she’d said all day.

_ How delightful _ , she thought. 

How  _ delightful _ that she would be having a snowball fight on the roofs of Phimela with a man trying to kill her in the midst of a growing  _ blizzard _ .

The man faltered for a second, and Krea sent a throwing knife into his thigh. He collapsed, groaning in pain.

The final one was the trickiest. He was the smallest, and yet the most deadly of them. He swung for her with his sword, but she raised her worn vambrace to parry it. The shock sent through her body from the blow had her on her knees immediately. In a rush, Krea pulled out her rusty sword, the thing as cheap as she could afford. She used it to block his next attack, expecting the sword to shatter. 

It did. 

And now she was defenseless.

But something behind her distracted him for the briefest of moments, and she swung out with her leg, hard. He landed with a thump on the icy roof beside her. She straddled him, her knees firmly planted on either side of his body. His eyes widened in fear.

But she would not kill him. 

No. Krea Norik was no killer.

She landed a blow to his temple that made his eyes roll into his head. 

He was unconscious, and not for long. She grabbed his sword, one of fine quality, and fished his pockets, searching. Her fingers clamped down on cool stone, and when she tugged at it, a small ruby and a red stone fell into her hands.

_ Bingo. _

She grinned. Today was indeed Krea Norik’s lucky day. But as she rose to flee the scene, something snapped. She stood up, her hand suddenly flying to the sword at her side. 

…But there was nothing. Just the flurry of snow.

She could have sworn she saw something. 

Something… gold. She shrugged off a shiver forming at the base of her spine and shimmied down the roof. 

The wind was picking up, and every moment her vision waned further. The blizzard was building momentum, and she found within moments that she could not see or feel, but only be aware of the cold filling her body.

She wandered around aimlessly for several minutes until she heard a resounding, merry laugh and several hearty ones joining it. And then she smelled the alcohol and the food. By gods, it really was her lucky day. 

She moved towards the noise, finding herself in an inn, half the size of the Seaside Inn. She came in, snow covering her every inch, hood pulled down. A servant immediately ran to her to take her cloak and Krea politely waved him off.

“We’re all full for the night!” the innkeeper shouted from further in the inn. Krea strolled to his side, flipping him the ruby. His eyes went very, very wide as he beheld the priceless gem.

“H-How did-”

“I presume you can find me a room and food. Only for one night. And complete privacy.”

He nodded profusely, his black eyes gleaming. 

“O-Of course.” He paused, searching for the servant from before.

“Enzo!” he snapped at the small boy. The wide-eyed boy--barely a child--stepped into place, his tiny legs running to the innkeeper’s side.

“Enzo,” he said to the boy, “this kind man has paid very,  _ very _ generously for a night. Make sure he’s taken care of, will you?” His grin seemed like a threat, one which Enzo took to heart.

“Follow me, sir,” Enzo said, gesturing to Krea. She followed him as he led her up a flight of stairs and to a large room. 

“Here, sir.”

Enzo opened the door, his tiny body on its toes to reach the handle. The door swung open, revealing a musty old room. Krea stepped in it, any regret from tossing the man the ruby dissipating. Of course she planned to steal the jewel back later, but by the gods… in the wealthy’s standards it might be considered a broom closet, but in hers, the room was a palace.

She rarely had the money to buy a room, and during spring, summer, and fall--if she could bear it--she would sleep on the roofs of Phimela. But now, with winter raging through the Capital, she found it impossible to sleep under the stars.

“Thank you, Enzo.”

He jumped.

_ Shit. _

She’d forgotten to disguise her voice. And he’d heard the feminine tone to it. But he brushed it off, promising not to open his mouth. And for some odd reason, though she did not know him at all, Krea trusted the boy to keep his mouth shut.

After Enzo left, shutting the door behind him, Krea finally removed her hood, the wet cloth of no use. Flecks of snow scattered on the dark wood at the impact. Krea turned towards the dusty mirror--another luxury the ruby had bought her--and paused. 

She hadn’t removed her hood in nearly a month, except to shower and change, and hadn’t owned a mirror or been near a river to look at her reflection. Even in the prisons, the guards never took her cloak off. They tried once, and the poor guard ended up with a rock in his eye.

She finally glared into the dusty, aged mirror, seeing the strange markings on her face she dearly needed to hide. She raised her pale fingers to her cheekbone, behind her ear, and down her neck as if brushing away a strand of hair. But underneath that path, swirled tattoos of pure silver, each of the three, hard lines intertwining before plunging under her shirt.

She was born with them. And she’d never seen another like her. And for the first thirteen years of her life, men harassed her, and women tried to  _ cut _ the markings off of her face. Nothing could remove them. And then, when she first wore the mountain grain paste, the thick substance covered her tattoos, making her normal again. When she went out into the streets again, Krea Norik felt  _ human _ again. No one gave her a second glance. No one sat and tried to estimate how much she’d sell for at the market. No one touched her. No one threatened her. Yes, she was still a woman and that brought troubles of its own, but at least she wasn’t a spectacle.

Krea looked into the mirror a final time. She’d grown thin over the years. When she’d lived with her father, she was a rather large creature. But at age thirteen, when she became an orphan, she found herself running around the streets and learning to defend and feed herself.

She learned how to use a knife from her old friend, but that pure friendship lasted only a night before he was swept away into the duties his own life. She missed his innocent, kind presence dearly and would have given anything to meet him again. But she also supposed it luck that he was gone. Having friends in Phimela was never good when the Nightingales ran their raids. He left her his knife, a beautiful silver-hilted weapon with a blade of pure black, streaked with dark purple. It had been named Arawn, after a character from the Old Lore.

It was a beautiful contrast to the silver swords of Phimela, and she never let it off her body or out of her sight. She could be wearing a thousand weapons and still feel bare without the cool touch of his knife at her thigh.

She’d grown after thirteen, but never tall enough. She was a bit short, but her eyes were a sweet milky brown, her hair as dark as a raven’s feathers--it was full and wavy, the ends curling at the tips, just over her breasts. Despite the ordinary nature of her hair and eyes, the dark colors created a stunning contrast against her silver tattoos dancing on the right side of her face. Her eyelashes were long and dark, casting shadows on her cheeks. And by her left eye, were two little freckles of brown. Her skin was a light olive, and her lips full and rosy pink. But the most beautiful feature of all was the fire in her eyes, the youth in her step, and the heart that seeked hope. 

Those were the things that made her different.

Aside from her witty, and often vulgar mouth, Krea had a soft heart. She was not a killer. Her smart remarks were the only thing keeping her alive--besides her fists. She fought like she was born to wage war, and though she was strong, she was still human. And it had earned her several small scars. One on her left arm, a small silver streak, and another along her collarbone. The largest of all was hidden: a long, white, jagged thing running along her forearm. One she’d rightfully earned.

But for every silver scar she had, it made her tattoos all the more beautiful. It made her look powerful, and she loved it. She loved every tiny part of her ordinary face. 

Like her simple features, Krea chose to wear simple clothing. She was never one for dresses, their skirts too long to move in, though she could admire a beautiful one. Instead, she opted for black leather pants and tall, tight-fitting gray boots. Her blouse was white and loose. The only thing she could afford to keep her warm was her thin, worn, black cloak.

Her weapons were not her own. All of course, except for the black knife strapped to her thigh. The rest she found lying around, or stole. Her collection included the sword she swiped from the man earlier, two knives, and a belt full of throwing knives.

Looking in the mirror, Krea could see the exhaustion lining her eyes. She tore off the sword belt and knives, keeping only the one at her thigh. She loosened her shirt, the fire in her room making the air sticky and hot. 

A knock thudded at the door, and Krea opened it cautiously to find Enzo.

Gawking.

_ Crap. _

She’d forgotten to cover her tattoos or wear her cloak. And now the little boy stared at them in awe and wonder, his eyes frozen and his mouth open.

Krea raised her eyebrow in question and cracked a grin. 

“Something on my face, munchkin?” He went taut, realizing he had stared for far too long, and averted his gaze to his feet.

“U-Umm, ma’am, the master wanted me to ask if you preferred beef or vegetable stew.”

“Beef is fine.”

“Y-yes.”

“Listen, kid. I’m not going to kill you, so you can calm down.” He nodded, swallowing, and then to Krea’s utter surprise, cracked a goofy grin.

“They’re beautiful, ma’am.”

And although she had a pissy morning, Krea suddenly found her heart warming, and her shoulders relaxing.

“Thank you, Enzo. You’re very kind.”

But he wasn’t done.

Gods above, he was  _ jumping _ in joy. 

“Today is a beautiful day!”

“Yes? It is, I suppose.” Krea was confused by the sudden enthusiasm. But it definitely wasn’t a beautiful day. There was a damned snowstorm rattling the city.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking ma’am but-”

“To answer your question, yes.”

She knew his question before he asked it. She’d been asked it a million times before she covered them. 

“I was born with them,” Krea continued, still taken aback by the young boy’s vigor. His face grew wider still, his grin growing so large Krea was afraid that his mouth would split in half. He tried-- and utterly failed-- to compose himself again.

“ _ Enzo. _ ”

The boy snapped to attention.

“You cannot tell anyone what you saw today. It will only bring great trouble for me  _ and you _ .” He didn’t seem afraid by the threat, but rather excited by it.

He nodded, ever the obedient soldier, and turned to go, flashing one final grin over his shoulder.

“But ma’am… I hope the best for you. And I hope that one day, they no longer bring you pain, but the world joy.”

And then he was gone.

His little voice, his sweet words, were filled with wisdom when he spoke them. And it made Krea’s heart burn with life again. 

She didn’t remember when that fire had burned out.

When the night had settled, and her belly was full for the first day in many, Krea felt the night creep up on her bones, trying to lure her to sleep. But she wouldn’t give into the call. 

Instead, she tried to remember the face of her old friend. But his face had worn away with time. And in his place, a new face of hope swam. In her friend’s face, she saw Enzo.

A sign of a better future.

And proof that there was still innocence and life in this city of death.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

_ Rowan _

(One Day Earlier)

Rowan Ashdown found himself bored beyond all reason for the seventh time this week as he watched his father bicker with a general. 

His head propped on his arm and his legs slung lazily over the table, Rowan stared out into the winter storm brewing in Phimela through the frosted glass.

It was Rowan’s seventh meeting this week, and like every other meeting, he sat through the entire thing, never speaking a word.

By contrast, his raging father and the general hissed and clicked at one another in argument over war plans.

“Listen up, you bastard. I’m not moving my troops,” Rowan’s father roared at the general, pounding his fist on the black wood table.

But of all the people he was afraid of, General Lukas had no fear of Rowan’s father. He shouted back, and his father did not reprimand him. The two cursed at each other at the other end of the table, neither glancing at Rowan. 

He sat in this heated argument for the next hour in silence, watching as the snow turned to a blizzard. Even the roaring of the storm beyond the icy windows could not mask the growling of his stomach. Rowan frowned as he studied his black boots and another reverberation racked through him.

Gods, he could use some sweets.

“Father,” Rowan said casually. His father glanced at him, and blinked in surprise, as if suddenly remembering he was there. He noted the look on Rowan’s face and waved a hand.

“You can go.”

“Thank you,” Rowan replied rather abruptly, pulling his lanky legs off the table and striding to the door.

His entire body ached with the movement. He hadn’t run, hadn’t fought, hadn't done  _ anything  _ in the past week. Simply walking through the halls made him tired. He reached the door before his father addressed him.

“And while you’re out, I want you to find Harper and send him over.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Rowan smirked softly as his father didn’t notice the hint of mockery in the recital of his title, and sent his son off with a wave.

Rowan strode through the halls, following the smell of sugar. He knew where it led. And he knew who would be there.

Rowan swung into the kitchen, a ravenous grin on his face as he beheld the head cook, a sweet old man with watery blue eyes.

“Rowan!” the old man remarked in joy.

“Elén.” Rowan embraced the small man.

“My boy, I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Father stuck me in another one of his stuffy meetings.” Rowan studied the expanse of flour and butter and milk.

Elén didn’t complain as Rowan scooped up as many pastries as he could carry and pulled himself onto the counter, swinging his legs below.

One by one, he munched on the sugary sweets, his eyes finally glowing again. He ate the large pastries in a single bite, grinning with joy like a child.

“You keep eating those, and you’ll start looking like your father,” Elén joked, pointing a ladle at Rowan.

Elén had no worries about insulting the Emperor of Aegea. Or his son, Rowan. He loved the Emperor’s son as if he were his own. And he hated the Emperor. 

Most everyone did. 

Gods, even Rowan hated the Empire, and he was the heir to it.

The smell of honey and sugar wafted through the room as Elén finished up his baking, and turned to face Rowan, who munched on his final pastry and swallowed slowly to savor every particle of sugar against his tongue.

“Rowan, Lily came looking for you.”

“Did she?” Rowan asked, licking the sugar off his lips. He’d never shown interest in the woman. 

“Be careful with that one Rowan, she’s as gentle as a flower.”

“And impulsive,” Rowan added. “ _ And _ repulsive.” He named several other traits of women like her, counting them off on his fingers, and when he had no more fingers, his toes. 

“Do you find all women repulsive?” Elén asked curiously. Rowan chuckled at the implication.

“Only women who mistake me for Harper.”

“Ah,  _ him _ . Your brother has been quite a nuisance lately.”

“Has he, now?” Rowan asked. He truly didn’t care. He didn’t meddle in his brother’s affairs. His brother had a heart as black as his father’s, and a talent for slipping more women into his bed each night than Rowan could even begin to count.

The only reason it caused Rowan trouble was because they shared the same face, and when Harper wooed women, Rowan suddenly found the women throwing themselves at  _ him _ . They couldn’t tell the difference. After all, Harper and Rowan were identical twins. But only on the outside. On the inside, they vastly different.

Rowan had taken after his late mother. She’d died in childbirth, destroying the last bit of humanity in his father’s heart. He had her heart--and her mind--which was the only trait he carried with pride. 

But Harper was like their father. He was cruel and ambitious. He was manipulating. Rowan was older by a minute, making him the heir to Aegea. In several incidents, Harper posed as Rowan and tried to upset the Emperor into removing Rowan from heirdom. 

But the Emperor was least of all a fool, and in time, he gave them each a separate necklace. Rowan’s had a silver circle on it, and Harper’s, a black one. They had the same sword, and the same face, but everything else about them was different.

Elén was the head chef, and a fantastic baker. He had been close to Rowan since birth, and had befriended the boy when he first caught a young Rowan trying to steal more dessert. He’d made Rowan clean the dishes, and expected him to never come back. To be as cold as his father. But Rowan came back. He took more sweets and cleaned the kitchen. And so their friendship grew, the old man having grown rather possessive of Rowan.

Rowan loved him. 

Elén was the father of his dreams. A far greater father than his true one, the Emperor.

Sometimes Rowan would dream of another life. Of a better life where Elén was his father, and Rowan, a baker. In that dream, they baked all day and ate every meal together. 

And in this dream, Rowan was happy. He was ordinary. He sang, and he ate, and he drank. He did things boys his age did. He had friends.

But being such a person--given his position--was  _ not _ a possibility. He had a duty and a reputation to uphold. But Elén was the small reprieve in his unforgiving world. A tether in his void.

Elén leaned against the wall, taking in the sight of the son he never had. “You know, Rowan, you should consider it.”

“Consider what?” Rowan licked the residual sugar off his lips.

“A woman.”

Rowan had never expected that suggestion from Elén. That was something the Emperor would push, but not the baker.

“Did Father push you into convincing me of this?”

“Not at all. I think it would be good for your happiness… and the Empire.”

_ The Empire. _ Of course.  _ The godsdamned Empire.  _

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any part of it. But if he became Emperor, it meant Harper didn’t. And that saved thousands of lives. It saved the Empire of Aegea from another brutal reign.

From the hands of another greedy conqueror.

Noria was the First Civilization.

The first kingdom.

It was born before the Empire.

It remained a massive presence, spanning the continent until the First Emperor came and broke down the colossal kingdom, splitting it into five, smaller kingdoms and uniting them under his reign.

He named the large island to the west and all its tiny islands the Dellian Isles. 

He named the grassy lands of mainland Aegea to the Dellian Isles’s east, Hydros. 

The First Emperor then named the forest kingdom above it Hollyfare.

And he named the eastern edge of the continent, the land of ice and wastelands, Resmikk. 

The last kingdom, above Resmikk, he named Nore in homage, but the mysterious kingdom had been reduced to a fourth of its size.

The five kingdoms were then united by the First Emperor when he set up his capital on Empire Island, a large island to the far east. He named his city Phimela, and began his brutal reign.

In each kingdom, he placed monarchs of his choice to rule as puppets, forcing them to give in to his every command. But Nore, the most isolated kingdom, refused to bow. The King and Queen of Nore gave the Emperor no trouble. They could destroy him if they chose. So, for centuries the monarchs of Nore and the Emperor played a waiting game, each provoking one another, but never attacking. 

The Empire was created by the First Emperor out of spite. He wanted to dominate the people of Aegea.

But they already had a ruling system in place before his birth. 

The group, many centuries old, was called the Crimson Guard and loved dearly by the people. They were a group of highly-trained assassins living underground in each kingdom. Each sector of the Guard was run by an Assassin King, each King more deadly than fifty able-bodied men. 

The Crimson Guard worked day and night to ensure the flow of goods, protect its people, and provide aid to rebellions against the Empire. It worked underground in each and every kingdom, seemingly a parallel world.

To the very day Rowan was stuffing his face with food, the fractured remnants of the Guard were running around out of sight; their presence was in every city and town, and their influence, infinite. Rowan often wondered what the Guard looked like at the apex of their reach--before the power of the Empire had weakened them--if they still remained so strong today. They were a force of great power in the kingdoms and eradicating their presence was a death sentence--not for the murderer, but for the entire Aegean civilization. 

But Rowan’s father was a fool. The Emperors of the past never provoked the Guard. They tried to exist peacefully with them. Rowan’s father, Emperor Frederick Ashdown III of Aegea, had declared war on them. 

He intended to destroy them, to skin each and every one of their assassins alive. It could be the greatest achievement of his reign-- it would grant him unlimited power over, and unfaltering loyalty from, the people of Aegea. Or, if history proved anything, it would become his downfall.

Either way, Rowan knew one thing: the world was going to hell.

Rowan shifted as he realized he’d left Elén waiting for some kind of response.

“I don’t want his Empire,” Rowan whispered to him. “I’ve never wanted any of it.” He watched the baker solemnly. Rowan’s words were true and he knew it. He always spoke from his heart.

“I know,” Elén murmured back, his voice soothing Rowan as if he were a child. “You wish for another life.”

“I do,” Rowan said firmly. He looked at the old man. “It might be the most stupid thing I’ve said, but I wish you were my father instead.”

Elén smiled softly at his words, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a brief display of joy. “As do I.”

Rowan hated his father.

And he hated his brother, a constant living reminder that should the Emperor find Rowan unsatisfactory, he would have a replacement.

But, he had loved his mother… and she was gone.

And so all he had left to live for was the man before him. His father in his heart, and the greatest man he’d ever met. He averted his eyes from the baker’s warming gaze.

There was no point in crying over what could not be. There was no point in hoping when all hope had been smothered under his father’s boot.

“I owe Harper a visit,” Rowan said suddenly, ending the vacuous silence between them. He got to his feet and sauntered out the door, afraid to look back at the fatherly wrinkled face and blue eyes he yearned to see every day. He was an embarrassment, he supposed. He had an empire and everything anyone could ever wish for, and yet… he wished that he did not have it.

He checked himself. He was a prince of the realm, and he shouldn’t wish for a simpler life when so many suffering people would gladly give their lives for his.

It was cruel and wrong.

When Rowan reached Harper’s rooms nearly forty minutes later at the upper levels of the castle, the guard at the door warned him that Harper was busy. But Rowan didn’t necessarily care, so he pushed the iron door open.

A scuttle sounded as Rowan entered the room and noticed Harper sitting lazily under the covers, chest bare and sheets askew. 

“ _ Rowan _ . Do join us.” Harper’s smile was a wicked, dark thing.

Another small figure tried to hide beneath the blankets, but gave in out of fear and popped out her head. 

_ Lily. _

Rowan refrained from rolling his eyes as Lily’s eyes grew round and bulged at the sight of him. Harper tossed her a robe--practically knocking her over with the force of the flying cloth--and she scrambled out of the bed, her face bright red. 

Rowan leaned against the threshold to Harper’s room, staring silently at his brother. He didn’t even acknowledge Lily when she ran by.

“Miss me, Rowan?” his brother asked coolly.

Rowan hated seeing that face,  _ his own face _ , looking back at him with such ire and hatred.

“No. But father did.” Rowan casually unfurled his arms.

“What does he want with me this time?” Harper said in his mocking, cold voice. He got up and clothed himself, not bothering to hide anything from Rowan’s view. They shared the same body, and Harper enjoyed reminding him of it.

Rowan didn’t give a shit.

Harper looked him over. “Do you bend to Father’s every whim?” he asked, coming close to Rowan, trying to taunt him. But Rowan remained cool, his eyes bored and his body relaxed. 

Harper wasn’t done.

“I enjoyed your bitch. Or was she mine? I can’t even remember.” He chuckled.

“Leave her alone,” Rowan grumbled. “And every other woman you see.”

“Ah but where’s the fun, then?”

“Father wants to see you  _ now. _ ”

“What a miserable little Emperor you’ll make,” Harper hissed in Rowan’s face.

“Ah,” Rowan said, looking suddenly bored as he picked at his fingernails. “You wouldn’t be incorrect in calling me such. I seem to have a terrible memory.” Rowan glared at his brother as he picked his nails. “Now that I remembered, father called for you an  _ hour _ ago.”

Harper cursed. Even he was smart enough to be afraid of their father. He stalked out of the room, but not before throwing Rowan a dirty glare.

“Next time,” Harper said. “I’ll make sure to send more of the castle wenches to your room in my name _. _ ” He stormed off, his long fur cloak trailing behind him.

The remainder of the night went by quickly, morning light bringing a promise to the end of the snow storm.

Rowan awoke to the drip of melting ice outside his window. The faint black clouds in the distance promised another storm tonight. This one, by the looks of it, far worse than the last.

Rowan dressed quickly, slipping on a white shirt embroidered with gold thread and at the cuffs. He pulled on his pants, his boots sliding on with ease up to his knees, and sheathed his glinting sword at his waist. His black hair was a still a mess from his sleep, and his gray eyes reflective of the storm brewing outside.

One after another, three of Rowan’s personal spies arrived in his rooms, delivered news, and left. 

They bore good news.

_ Incredible  _ news.

The kind that would ensure his heirdom.

So naturally, he didn’t hesitate to deliver it to his father.

Rowan rushed out the doors and through the growing throng of people. There were to be several events in the upcoming week, and the regular crowds in the castle had tripled. The winter solstice was coming up, and it was the one time a year the Emperor addressed the public.

No one noticed Rowan as he brushed through the crowd. His father, keeping with one bit of ancient tradition, never named his children or his heir publicly. Half the kingdom remained unsure whether he even  _ had _ children, their ages, and whether they were male or female. None dared to ask. There was no doubt the Emperor missed his wife, and no doubt he would not marry again.

Rowan spotted the Emperor several feet in front of him, ringed with a group of ambassadors from different kingdoms. His father smiled diplomatically at his guests, but Rowan knew that he was irritated and would be glad to be rid of the influx of visitors.

Rowan dwindled on the outside of the crowd until his father noticed him. His father caught his eye and cocked a brow. Rowan inclined his head in return.

“Excuse me. I have some business to deal with,” the Emperor said, dismissing the men around him. They bowed and fluttered off, not before sending Rowan sidelong glances. 

Rowan bowed at his approach.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

His father was curious. Excited, and even hopeful at his son’s hidden enthusiasm.

“Rise. What is it?”

“I have news regarding the Rose.”

“Do you, now?” The Emperor raised his eyebrows calmly, but the cold tyrant could not contain his excitement.

“My men have located her. At your word, they will strike.”

The Emperor’s fingers curled around the hilt of his golden blade. His thick fingers tapped anxiously, curling and uncurling. A bloodthirsty smile crept across his thin, pale lips, as he said with pride, “You have my word, General Rowan. Strike.”

Rowan could see his father’s grin-- _feel_ _it_ in his bones. To everyone here, Rowan was the youngest and most promising general. And he had just proved himself once again. But to the tall, wicked man before him, he was a son and heir who had secured his throne.

Rowan glanced at his father, who was beaming with pride, and then at the thickened throng of nobles around him. They watched him with awe, the Emperor’s favorite general. Some even tried to approach him. But the Emperor held up a hand, and the crowd parted like a sea before the gods.

They walked side by side through the golden halls, speaking as they passed massive mirrors and portraits and eventually came to a stop. Here, nobody watched.

“Tomorrow,” the Emperor whispered, his wet breath hot against Rowan’s neck.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I introduce you to the Empire. As my son, and as my heir.”

_ Gods above. _

Time had flown by and tomorrow, Rowan realized with shock, was his nineteenth birthday. 

His nineteenth birthday was one he’d dreaded for years. The very one where all his hopes and dreams would die. 

He’d hoped to impress his father with the news, but the next step came too early. He knew it was only a matter of time. He’d convinced himself that his ascension would save thousands. But it would come at the cost of his innocence. Of his very soul.

Because Rowan’s nineteenth birthday was also the day Rowan would be announced to the corners of the Empire as the Emperor’s son, and future Emperor of Aegea.

Tomorrow, his fate would be sealed.

Tomorrow, everything good about him would die.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

_ Krea _

_ A nightmare. _

Krea swore as she tore off her sweaty sheets and surveyed the room, the darkest corners of the room faintly illuminated by the silver radiating from the waning moon. She shook her head and pulled back her hair, sweat beading her upper lip and neck. Her breathing was ragged as she reminded herself of where she was.

_ Just a nightmare. _

But there it was again.

The thud and muffled scream from her nightmare sounded again.

_ It’s just a damned nightmare.  _ She cursed herself and laid back down, pulling the covers over her suddenly-cold body.

This time, the bang was louder. She could’ve sworn she was going mad until the doorknob rattled and the wood of the door shook with the impact of something large against it.

Krea scrambled to her feet, grabbing her knife as she tried to calm herself. She threw on her boots and cloak and waited. Maybe it was still a nightmare. She tucked her supplies--the nightweed and the mountain-grain paste--at her side and searched desperately for an exit.

Another thud sounded at the door, and Krea pulled herself into a fighting stance, ready to face whatever barreled through the door. 

But silence persisted.

_ Shit. Shit. Shit. _

Every moment was agony. Time slowed.

Krea begged for the whole thing to be some sick joke, or that she was still stuck in a nightmare. Maybe she was hallucinating from all the smoke she inhaled yesterday. Maybe she was being paranoid.

_ Thud. _

Krea’s knife slid out of its sheath at her side. She palmed it, waiting. 

Not a joke. Not a nightmare.

_ Thud. _

She was panting heavily now, her chest pumping furiously for air as the door groaned under the weight of whatever prowled on the other side.

The door rattled again and quieted for the briefest of moments before swinging open full-force. Light flooded her eyes and Krea cursed, preparing to fight blind.

The light scattered.

“Enzo?” Krea hissed, falling back onto her bed in surprise. 

The little boy stood by the threshold, his brown hair stark against the white wood of the doorframe. 

“Ma’am,” he gasped softly.

“Having a nightmare?” Krea snorted cockily, if not to tease the boy, but quell her own rushing adrenaline. She  _ was _ being paranoid. She sheathed her knife and approached the boy.

“ _ Ma’am _ ,” he said again, his voice higher pitched, curling into something in between whine and a plea.

“Enzo?” Krea asked softly, and took another step towards the boy. “Are you alright?” She took his hands in her arm to find that they were icy cold. 

His face was drained of color, paler than Krea could possibly imagine.

“Nightingales,” he gasped out.

The word awoke some predatory instinct in Krea. She immediately pulled the boy towards her chest, Arawn replaced by a silver sword in her hand.

She knew she wouldn’t last a moment against the Nightingales. But she would protect the boy, maybe give him time to escape before she, too, fled.

Krea waited for the beginnings of footsteps, or for the thuds to resume. 

They didn’t.

Enzo pulled back, grabbing Krea’s shoulder and pulling her down to eye level.

His voice was raspy, like an old man dying of thirst.

“ _Him_ ,” Enzo said, pointing a too-pale finger over Krea’s shoulder. “You can only trust _him_.”

Krea whipped her head around, only to find herself staring up at golden eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.

_ When the hell did he get into the room? _

“Enzo,” Krea whispered, turning around to face the boy. “Who is-”

Krea screamed.

Enzo, the little boy, had collapsed on the floor, blood pouring from his back.

“ _ Enzo _ !” Krea hissed desperately as she grabbed his limp form. She tried pulling him to her lap, but he grunted and reached up to her. He placed his palm on his cheekbone.

“Save us,” he whispered, stroking his tiny finger along Krea’s tattoo. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “Save us all.” 

And then his eyes died, the light of innocence winking out and fading into the dark.

“E-Enzo?” Krea whispered, unable to let go of the tiny lifeless body. The boy did not respond, his eyes glazed and looking at nothing. Krea closed them, her body suddenly shaking violently. Her mouth opened in the beginnings of a wild, unchecked, animal-like scream, as a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“Let go of him,” the male voice said gently, though his hands were rough.

Krea shoved off his hands, glaring at the golden eyes. She wanted to scream at him, to strangle him. She didn’t know why, but she hated him. Hated his calm demeanor when a child had been slaughtered.

_ You can only trust him. _

Krea stumbled to her feet, laying the boy down softly. Her hands were crusting with his crimson blood, and she shook violently. 

The golden-eyed man did not move. He watched her quietly, his eyes roaming over her face, as if he was looking for something. Krea could barely see him in the dark, and tried to regain her composure as her heart rate fluttered at the wetness of the blood on her shirt.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice rough.

“We need to leave,” he replied, voice strained. “Now.” His voice was deep and rough, tinted with a familiar accent.

“ _ Who are you? _ ” Krea asked again, her voice demanding, every whisper of humor and wit that defined her,  _ gone.  _

The man did not answer her, and instead strode into the hallway, looking right and left before shutting the door. He pushed past Krea, and climbed onto the straw bed to stare out the window.

Krea opened her mouth to yell at him again, but the shattering of glass made her jump. 

The golden-eyed man smashed the window, sending the bits of glass flying at Krea, one of which slid across her lip, drawing blood.

“Come on,” the man said, reaching out an arm to her. “We need to leave now.”

Krea blinked.

_ Did he really expect her to jump out the window? _

“Are you insane?” she asked slowly, her mouth going dry. 

The man just shrugged, pulling himself onto the windowsill. He looked back once and Krea caught a glimpse of his face in the moonlight and gasped.

_ He was beautiful. _

His eyes, as golden as the sun, were brilliant and odd enough, but when offset by the black waves of his hair, he looked ethereal. His face was scarred in several, tiny spots like the one through his eyebrow, but it did nothing to muffle the beauty and youth radiating from his olive skin and unnaturally perfect features. His jaw was strong and his lips a soft pink as they parted slightly. He shut them as he stared back for a moment, his beautifully framed eyes somber. 

And then he jumped out the window.

_ What. The. Hell. _

Krea ran to the windowsill and stared at the alleyway below, the rush of icy air biting her neck.

_ Did he really expect her to follow?  _

Krea had no idea who he was and wasn’t about to depend on another person’s help when she’d survived perfectly well on her own since her father’s death.

She turned away from the window and headed towards the hallway, coming suddenly to a halt. 

She eyed the boy and the puddle of blood around him, her heart screaming and yearning for him to wake.

He didn’t.

This was Phimela, she reminded herself. She swallowed her guilt so hard that she choked on it, and stepped over the body.

There was no pounding in the hallway anymore, so Krea decided to take the hallway, veering right. Her heart was heavy and her lips pressed thin. She tried, and failed to push Enzo’s image from her head, silvery tears forming at the edges of her vision.

_ Why the hell was she crying? _

She’d never cried for a death since the passing of her father. And with everything that was suddenly going on, Krea knew she needed to be clear of mind.

Those golden eyes flashed back into her memory.

Like hell she would follow the golden-eyed man. He showed no emotion at Enzo’s fall, and then expected her to jump out of a  _ window _ with him. Enzo had made a mistake. She would not trust the strange man.

Krea ran into the hallway, donned her hood, and chose to go left. Icy dread filled her as she jumped over one body.

Then another.

And another.

The bodies were endless, each of them clothed in black armor, marking them the Emperor’s Nightingales.

_ Who in hell was that man?  _ The golden-eyed man must be as fast as the gods if he could take on so many Nightingales and prevail. 

_ And, _ he must be a cold hearted killer to not only kill so many Nightingales, but also to not flinch at the death of a little boy.

Krea danced over the bodies, until she tripped over one, and fell to the ground with a grunt.

She rolled to her side, body going taut as she found herself staring into dark eyes. 

Blinking, living eyes.

_ The golden-eyed man didn’t kill them. He knocked them out. That was why he wanted her to jump out the window. _

Krea scrambled to her feet at the same time the Nightingale before her did. She jumped in surprise as another Nightingale rose. 

And soon enough the entire entourage rose to their feet, some grabbing their heads with a loud groan, others noticing the small girl before them. 

Krea knew her hood revealed none of her facial features up close. And she had no idea why these men were here. Why the Nightingales were looking for her.

Maybe the whole thing was a coincidence.

“You have the wrong person,” Krea said cautiously, dropping her flimsy sword to the floor. She was aware of the cold knife against her thigh, hidden under the cloak. Arawn would be a last resort. 

But the man in Nightingale armor before her pulled out his sword and pointed it at her.

“Take off your hood,” he ordered.

His voice was young, and his face concealed by his black armor. The only visible part of his body were his gray eyes, a common and deadly trait.

Gray eyes were the mark of the First Emperor’s descendants, many of whom were faintly related to the modern Emperor. There were hundreds of gray-eyed men and women in Phimela, but this one’s eyes were softer than the others, and less intent on spilling blood.

His faltering steps proved he was afraid.

Krea supposed she could reason with him.

“Did the Captain of the Guard finally chose to have me killed?” Krea asked patiently.

She had no doubt that these men were here to drag her back to prison for her petty thievery. She knew her heists would catch up to her one day.

But then again, the Emperor didn’t bother with street rats like her. He wouldn’t send so many Nightingales to kill a petty thief. And none of it explained the golden-eyed man.

“Take of your hood,” the young Nightingale snarled. 

The snarl didn’t suit him. His eyes were too full of life, and something like… desperation.

Krea spotted something from the corner of her eye.

A Nightingale emerged from her room, with Enzo’s limp body in his arms.

“General,” he said, throwing the limp body on the floor. “I took care of this one earlier.”

The Nightingale--their general--backed up and swore, his eyes going wide. “I didn’t ask you to murder anyone. Least of all a child.”

Krea wasn’t sure when the snarl erupted from her, but she was hurtling herself at the Nightingale who had Enzo’s blood on his hands.

She grabbed Arawn from her thigh, and drove the blade into the man’s leg.

He screamed and clutched his wound, falling to the floor. He watched Krea with his brown eyes. “P-please.”

But Krea was drowning.

The roaring in her ears was deafening.

The hood concealed her rage, but her body did not hold back.

This man. This man had  _ killed _ Enzo. He had extinguished an innocent, pure life. And Krea realized she would die soon too. But she would not leave Enzo, the only one alive in this dead city, unavenged.

Krea lifted her knife as a blast of cool air rushed forth, the golden-eyed man with it. He swept a leg under a Nightingale, knocking him to the ground. He was as fast as lightning as he pried the knife from Krea’s fingers.

“Don’t,” he snarled. 

“Give it back!” Krea begged. But she’d lost all senses. She was numb. And she didn’t protest as the man grabbed her with one arm, hauling her over his back as if she were a sack of potatoes.

He ran quickly, knives flying and downing Nightingale after Nightingale until they reached the room again. He slammed the door shut.

The man set her down, waiting this time for  _ her _ to jump first. He shoved a table in front of the door to secure it and helped Krea up to the sill. The handle of the door rattled, and shouts rang from behind it.

Krea groaned. 

No--this was  _ not at all _ how she’d planned to enjoy her friday night.

She stumbled slightly, Arawn catching the moonlight in the stranger’s palm. His eyes flashed as the dark blade glimmered in his hands. The shining black blade seemingly grinned lazily at the man, who stumbled back as he examined the blade.

Shock pooled across his face, as Krea mustered a weak, tired grin. 

“Never seen a woman with a knife before?” she snorted, silently begged the gods she wouldn’t break anything, and jumped out.

Krea yelped in pain as she landed on the hard, icy ground. Her legs gave way and she gasped in pain, her lungs seemingly filled with shards of glass.

She really,  _ truly _ had no idea what the hell she was doing, trusting the man. But she shrugged off her fear. She’d pulled off worse heists before hadn’t she?

The golden-eyed man made absolutely no noise as he hit the ground beside her, rolled, and landed on his feet.

“We need to go.”

Krea didn’t question him again, and decided to follow the tall, now-cloaked, man through the icy and snow-laden streets of Phimela. 

A shout sounded in the inn’s window as the Nightingales finally broke into the room, and noticed the broken window.

“Here,” the golden-eyed man--who Krea had now decided to call  _ Goldie _ \--said as he threw her Arawn. Krea caught it, the cool blade snapping into her fingers, her blood finally cooling at their reunion.

“We need to jog another mile,” Goldie said, noting her limp. “Can you do it?”

“Of course I can,” Krea replied. But she couldn’t. Her leg was burning. 

Like hell she was going to tell him that. 

She was stubborn and she knew it.

“Follow me,” Goldie said, breaking into a jog. He turned around once and snarled through the dark, “ _ Quietly _ ” as he heard her trip over a rock.

Krea followed the gentle rustle of his cloak as she ran behind him. The noise from his cloak was the only thing guiding her through the dark as torch-lit sconces became more and more scarce.

They jogged for a mile before reaching the outskirts of the city, where two horses were standing impatiently.

Krea stared up at the smaller one in horror. It was the smaller of the two, and yet it was the largest creature she’d seen. Goldie noted her expression, his jaw tightening.

“Please tell me someone taught you how to ride,” he hissed through the dark.

Krea wanted to spit on his boot. “Of course I can, Goldie.” She scrambled up the horse as Goldie chuckled softly at the nickname. He mounted the large, mud-colored horse beside Krea’s.

“Brigan,” he said.

“What?”

“My name is Brigan.”

“Oh,” was Krea’s only reply. She had no plan to tell him her own name. He might as well be working for the Emperor. He had kept her safe so far, but anyone could be working for the Emperor nowadays. Desperation drove men to betray one another. She probably shouldn’t be following him so blindly.

_ Well _ , to hell with it. What did she have to lose anyways?

Brigan’s horse broke into a trot ahead of Krea’s own horse, and she kicked the side of her horse several times, trying to copy Brigan, but it remained as still as a stone.

“Move, dammit,” Krea whispered under her breath. The beast paced, jumping from one foot to another. It twitched its ear and snorted at her loudly. 

“You’re cocky aren’t you?” Krea snorted back.

The horse whinnied, and dug its hooves into the snow. Krea dug her heel in the beast again, this time  _ too _ hard, and the horse reared forward towards Brigan’s, driving a yelp from Krea.

The horse dashed up to Brigan’s side, easily keeping pace with its kin. Brigan noted Krea’s prideful grin and laughed, the sound cold and low. “The horse is trained to follow mine. Don’t look too proud of yourself.”

Krea rolled her eyes and leaned forward against the animal’s muscled body. She could feel every hoofbeat through the horse as it plowed through the snow with ease. It could not shake the numbness finally settling in her injured leg, and her heart. They rode in silence for nearly an hour before dismounting.

“The ocean?” Krea asked curiously, noting the sound of crashing waves. Despite her honest curiosity, her voice was bland.

She turned towards the horizon, where the black sky met an ice-kissed ocean of similar color. Phimela had to be far behind now if they’d reached the coast.

Krea knew she should be concerned, but… he’d helped her. And Enzo had trusted him. She at least owed him the benefit of the doubt. But  _ why _ he’d saved her and  _ who _ he was… Those were questions she needed answers to first.

Brigan dismounted his horse and offered her a hand. She ignored it and dismounted the horse quickly--albeit overconfidently--and fell face-first into the sand. Brigan’s sneer was unsuppressed, but a glare from Krea had him quickly changing his expression into one of neutrality.

She followed Brigan to the water’s edge, spotting a small wooden boat undulating in time with the lapping of the dark water.

“A boat?” she thought aloud.

Brigan nodded but said no more.

“Are you taking me off the island?”

Another nod.

He  _ had _ to be a madman.

He’d knocked out nearly twenty Nightingales,  _ and  _ their General.

He’d snuck into her room without so much as a scrape of a boot against the wood.

He’d jumped out a window.

He’d fought off more Nightingales with Krea slung over his shoulder.

He’d jumped out of the window  _ again _ .

He _had_ to be crazy.

Leaving Empire Island was nearly impossible. The Nightingales would hunt anyone successful of such a feat to the ends of Aegea.

“I’m not going,” Krea said, crossing her arms. “I’m already known for small crimes, but I don’t want a damn bounty on my head.”

Brigan looked up, bored, from where he crouched, his hands busy untying the ropes that bound the boat to the shore. He ignored her defiant words as though she had no say in the matter

“Look,  _ Brigan. _ ” She spat the words. “I’m wanted for petty thievery. If I leave Empire Island, the Emperor’s cronies will chase after me until death. And even after that. I can stay here and get away with a short sentence.”

“Thief?” Brigan asked curiously, lifting a dark brow. His spoke casually, unafraid of the threat she posed.

Or at least  _ thought _ she posed. She’d seen him fight. Whoever the hell he was, he was far more than a petty thief. And that accent… Krea knew that accent. She’d heard it from her father’s mouth.

“Not a thief.  _ A survivor _ ,” Krea snapped back. She studied his lean from, noting the way he moved. It reminded her of a… predator. It unnerved her enough that she changed the subject. “You’re from Nore?”

His golden eyes flashed softly, and he thought out his response carefully, his face contorting as he assessed her words. His answer, however, was clipped. “Yes.”

“Can you tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell would I go with you?”

“Because if you stay, you will die.”

“Plainly put.” Krea snorted back, watching Brigan curiously as he peeled back the hood of his cape, and began pushing the boat with his heel. The small boat left a deep track in the sand as with a final grunt, Brigan sent it into the water. 

He waded in until he was thigh-high in water and then looked back at Krea, his face undeniably exquisite in the pale light of the moon. His dark hair curled lightly at the ends of his straight hair and wrapped behind his ear. He watched her, waiting for her to follow. 

His face scanned hers impatiently. But underneath those eyes that seemed so old… he  _ had _ to be younger than she thought. Close to her age, maybe.

“Coming?” he asked again impatiently, rubbing his jaw. The casual tone with which he said it almost made her almost think she had a choice. But she knew that she didn’t. She could stay here and die when the Nightingales found her. Or, she could risk her life and pray that this man wasn’t going to kill her. That way she could,  _ possibly, _ have a chance at escaping this island. 

She sighed.

_ How damn wonderful _ . She’d had a snowball fight with a mercenary on a rooftop yesterday and now… she’d evaded Nightingales, jumped out of a window, and ended up with a chance to escape Empire Island. 

Of course she’d follow him. Anything was better than Phimela. It was worth the risk, but she had to know who he was.

“Who are you?” Krea asked softly.

“Brigan.”

“No shit.” She ran an eye over his muscled arms.

_ Definitely _ not ordinary.

Brigan snorted softly at her cursory gaze before reaching out his scarred hand. Krea looked it over warily.

The way he fought earlier was inhuman.  _ Unnatural.  _ Like he’d had lifetimes of practice. He moved like liquid water and stuck like hardened steel. She didn’t trust the hand he extended. She had no idea who he was.

_ Did she even have a choice? _

Krea was still contemplating it when a shout rang out behind her. She whipped her head inland, towards the source of the noise. She went still as she took in the group of Nightingales riding hard towards them. 

They hadn’t given up.

_ What the hell was happening? _

“ _ We need to go _ ,” Brigan snarled behind her, taking a step towards her. 

He was beyond being impatient.

So was she. She wanted answers and if the pressure of the Nightingales flying towards them was enough to make Brigan spit out answers, she’d get them.

His lips pursed as he noted the way she grounded her feet, as he detected her defiance.

“ _ Why _ am I so important to you? Why not just leave this island and let me die? Why are the Nightingales after  _ me _ ? How did you fight like that?  _ Who are _ -”

The next question died on her lips as something slammed into her head and she spiraled, blackness overtaking her vision.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

_ Krea _

Krea woke sometime later with a pounding headache. She couldn’t remember who she was or where she resided or how long she’d been out. All that she could feel or think of was the thundering roar of pain at her brow. She struggled to piece together what had happened and where she was.

_ Nightingales. _

_ The inn. _

_ Enzo. _

_ Dead. _

_ Gold. _

_ Brigan. _

_ Horses. _

_ Boat. _

_ Blackness. _

“M-Miss?” A voice said sharply, cutting through the room and jostling Krea out of her thoughts. A bucket clunked near Krea and she didn’t hesitate as she hurled her guts out into it. A sickly moan escaped Krea’s lips as another wave of pain hit her head.

Soft fingers pulled Krea’s hair back as another spasm threatened her, and she purged again.

“Here,” the voice said anxiously, shoving a glass of water to Krea’s lips. “Drink.”

Krea grabbed the water gratefully--still too disoriented to speak--and drowned the entire glass. Tears pricked the edges of her vision, and she swore as the world seemed to spin upside down.

Someone handed her a towel, and she took the wet cloth and covered her face in it. 

She had no idea where she was or who she was talking to. The bed beneath her was soft and covered in thick, silken blankets. She was wearing fine clothes, by the feel of them. The finery, the warmth of a bed… 

“Am I dead?” she ground out, her voice like sandpaper.

“No, miss.”

“Where is he?” Krea managed to croak, swearing again as each word pulled fiery air out of her lungs.

Gods, she felt  _ terrible. _

“ _ He _ , miss?”

_ Miss.  _ Why in hell was this woman calling her  _ miss _ ?

“Brigan,” Krea managed.

“The master is busy,” the girl’s voice replied.

_ Master? _

“Where the hell am I?” 

Krea didn’t particularly care for the stream of swears that erupted from her mouth at the sudden pang of pain in her head, but the girl winced at the stream of vulgar words as she peeled the towel off from Krea’s face.

Krea slowly opened her eyes, blinking as fuzzy shapes began to swirl and dance together, metamorphosing into solid shapes. Black spots loomed at the edge of her vision.

Krea blinked twice at the face that had formed over her. 

A girl.

The girl was young, likely Krea’s age. She had the darkest, most rich skin Krea had ever seen. Her hair was lighter than her skin, a caramel brown that was spun into seemingly perfect curls. Her eyes were an odd contrast to her skin, and shone a bright, pale blue. She was truly beautiful, and Krea had never seen a face like hers.

“Miss?”

“Krea,” she corrected, blinked, and then swore again as she realized she’d given away her name. She turned onto her side.

“Krea?”

“Yes?” Krea asked as the girl grabbed some medicine and brought it to her side. She didn’t care what was in the pills as she grabbed and swallowed them.

“M-May I?” she asked as she lowered the back of her hand to Krea’s forehead. 

Gaining a nod of approval, the girl placed her hand on Krea’s forehead. Her pretty face was contemplative.

“You’ll be fine,” she said again, her voice as soft as a mouse’s.

“Where is he?” Krea asked again, a plea. She had to know what was going on.

“The master told me to fetch him when you woke. I’ll go find him.” The girl made to run off but Krea stopped her, gently grabbing her elbow.

“Not now,” Krea rasped. “I need some questions answered.” She swallowed, cursing the dryness in her throat.

“Master Brigan told me not to answer any questions you asked.”

_ Bastard. _

The girl handed Krea a dress and insisted she shower. The fabric of the dress was soft and shiny. It was made of velvet on the inside, making it an ideal dress for winter. And it was a very,  _ very _ fine dress.

“And miss,” the girl added, pointing at Krea’s face. “You can remove the paste. No one will judge you here for the heir tattoos.”

_ Shit.  _ Enzo must’ve told Brigan. But how-- _ when _ ? Krea knew they were tattoos, but  _ heir _ tattoos? What did that mean?

“Who is he?” Krea asked, questioning the girl about Brigan. 

She ignored Krea, going about some cleaning, and refused to respond to every inquiry that slipped Krea’s lips. Krea gave up, and sighed with resignation. “Could I at least have pants… and a shirt?” Krea asked, eyeing the dress with distaste.

If she needed to stab someone today, she certainly wasn’t doing it in a dress. 

The girl’s eyes lit up in amusement and wonder at the odd request.

“Yes,” she said softly. “That’ll make quite the statement.” She grinned timidly and ran off. Krea considered trying to run, but with the lack of windows and the threat of running into Brigan--who would likely kill her in one blow--Krea sat patiently. Three minutes later, the girl returned with simple leggings and a loose white shirt. 

“Thank you,” Krea said, grinning softly. “What’s your name?”

“Eliza,” the girl replied with an equally enthusiastic grin. “It’ll make quite the statement to the men when you show up wearing pants and a shirt. They might even cry.”

At those words, Krea Norik decided she liked this Eliza. But before she could ask who she meant by  _ men _ , Eliza whisked her off to the bath.

The bath, like everything else about the room, was built with taste and attention to detail. It was massive, and there was absolutely no expense spared. 

The only unfortunate aspect to it all was the lack of light. There were hundreds of candles, but no windows to be seen.

The bath water itself was warm and filled with all sorts of scents such as lavender and citrus, and filled with bits of floating flowers. Every sniff of the air sent Krea into paradise. She couldn’t trust anyone here, but she liked Eliza, and trust be damned, she didn’t mind the bath. The poor girl had probably offered her a bath because she smelled like a sewer.

After her bath and once she was fully dressed, Eliza pulled her into the hallway-- a massive path with walls of dark wood and a floor made of stone, covered in red-and-black carpet. 

Krea struggled to keep up with Eliza’s long strides as they wound through several turns. She felt slightly out of place without her paste, her silver tattoos gleaming in the light, the radiant picture muffled by the hood over her head. Arawn, plastered at her side, was the only thing keeping her from exploding from the dread building in her body.

There truly were no windows here, only an endless expanse of carpet and paintings. There were hundreds of candles, making the entire place rather gloomy. But no windows in sight.

And, no windows meant no quick escape.

It smelled damp and earthy, making Krea wonder if the entire expanse of this place was built underground… with no exit in sight.

Krea tried to ward off the fear that crept along her bones. She willed her legs to follow Eliza.

There were several oak doors lining the hallway, many of them swung open to reveal rooms. Some were bedrooms like hers, but much smaller and likely shared by multiple people. There were rooms full of books, and others with vials lining the walls. Some, to Krea’s concern, were lined in weapons far deadlier than her own arsenal.

She saw very few people, and most of those that she did pass by were servants. Those who weren’t servants were busy talking to one another in what seemed like fighting leathers--soldiers of some sort. If they saw her pass, they didn’t look twice at her. It was an amazing--and mildly concerning--sight.

What caught most of her attention was the uniformity between genders of the few people she passed. Both men and women wore similar fighting leathers, many with wicked weapons slung across their back or hanging at their waist. They all wore cloaks but chose not to don hoods. The women here looked fierce… something Krea had never seen before. 

None of them wore dresses. 

Many of them kept their hair cropped short.

They wore armor.

They had countless weapons.

Their hands were rough and scarred.

And, most importantly, looked like they could beat the shit out of Krea.

_ That _ was the very reason why Krea found herself staring. In Phimela, women wore dresses, bore children, and cooked food. They were nothing more than tools to be used for reproduction. But here, in a place she did not know or trust, Krea felt some sort of semblance. 

Eliza stopped before a great oak door, wider and taller than any of the ones she’d seen in the hallway before. Two men in glinting armor stood guard at the door and shifted at her approach.

She wasn’t sure what to do, and inclined her head in greeting. One of them smiled, and the other smirked. 

“This is where I leave you,” Eliza said softly. “Don’t give Brigan too hard of a time, alright?”

Krea flashed Eliza a grin suggesting she would undoubtedly do otherwise as the girl scuttled off, leaving Krea and the two guards. The younger one watched her warily, waiting for her to say something.

“Um… Can I go inside?” Krea asked, fumbling over her words. 

The older guard smiled softly as he nodded, the faded red paint flaking off as his hands pushed the door open.

Krea stepped into the room before the door shut behind her. She was in some sort of antechamber, mostly empty except for two small sofas, a table, and a fireplace. Behind the sofas, the next door was propped open, and in it Krea could make out five hunched figures.

She’d expected to meet Brigan alone, demand answers, and maybe--just  _ maybe _ \--punch him. But she suddenly felt bare when she noticed the five male figures, each of them tall and muscled and a threat.

She recognized Brigan by his hair. He was hunched over the center of the table, motioning something to his companions. None of them had noticed her approach, and she studied them quietly, afraid to make a noise.

“Not even the Rose can save us,” one of them mumbled to Brigan. “We have tried for hundreds of years and failed  _ every single time. _ ”

“Troops will be in Resmikk soon. I need to leave,” the other said, his voice urgent. “I’m sorry, but I cannot wait any longer.”

_ Resmikk?  _ What was going on in Resmikk?

“I agree. I must leave as well and make preparations… I hope she was worth the trouble.” The male behind the voice was short and his voice was soft and kind.

“She can handle herself,” Brigan snapped back. “I’ve seen her take out  _ four _ of Elrin’s assassins. On the _ roofs.  _ She has a reputation for trouble, but she’s more trained than we’d hoped.”

A small noise escaped Krea’s lips as she realized Brigan--no-- _ all of them  _ were talking about her. 

She’d fought off four men on the roofs.

But assassins.

Gods above.

He meant the Crimson Guard. 

She’d fought off four of their men.

“You have the wrong person,” Krea snarled as all five men went still as death. “I don’t know why you want me, but I can’t  _ save _ you. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not who you’re looking for.”

She heard Brigan huff a breath of resignation and watched as his knuckles on the table turned white before he turned to face her, his golden eyes staring directly at her.

She found herself staring in awe. Not at his stunning face, but at something that had never been there before. She watched as he swallowed, and froze as she noticed black markings on his neck. Ones she’d never seen on anyone else before.

_ Tattoos. _

Her mouth went dry.

She gulped as she noticed they were the same markings as hers, just placed in a different location.

_ What? _

Slowly, each of the remaining four men turned to face her. They, too, had black tattoos.

“H-How?” Krea choked out, her fingers flying to her own tattoos. “Is this some kind of cruel joke?”

Brigan watched her quietly, his eyes flickering with some odd emotion.

“Here we go again,” one of the men--a red-haired one--whispered to the blond man beside him.

“Where am I?” Krea asked. This time, she would not rest until she had answers.

But she was afraid she already knew where she was. She was afraid that these five men were the ones people told stories of. She knew, from deep in her soul,  _ exactly  _ where she was.

“Welcome to the Crimson Guard,” Brigan whispered, his voice strained. Krea swore she picked up a hint of regret.

_ The Crimson Guard. _

Gods, they would kill her for what she’d done.

“I-Is this because I attacked four of your men?” Krea asked slowly, backing away. Brigan carefully tracked her every step.

And those watchful eyes and strange grace… all of it were marks of an assassin.

No one ever saw the Crimson Guard themselves. 

She had committed an offense awful enough that it saw her brought before the Guard. 

She was in such deep shit.

People  _ rebelled _ in the name of the Crimson Guard. Thousands of people fought and died for them. They were the rebel group of assassins that held up the entire world. They were Aegea’s oldest organization--older than even the First Empire--and hated more than anything by the current Emperor.

_ If she’d pissed them off by attacking four of their men _ , Krea suddenly realized,  _ she might have fared better had she been thrown to the Nightingales. _

Brigan stepped closer and Krea winced. 

She had caught the attention of, and pissed off, the world’s most powerful organization.

“I’m sorry,” Krea whispered.

“No.” Brigan stopped his advance. “No, this has nothing to do with Elrin.”

Krea blinked, trying to unscramble the look on his face and figure out why she was brought here. Brigan watched her watch him, seemingly aware of her every thought. He coughed as she backed away again and slipped his hands into his pockets.

He spoke again, the tattoo that dove beneath his shirt still snagging her attention. “In fact, Elrin was becoming a nuisance. Thank you for putting him in his place. My men will have a talk with him.”

_ His  _ men.

Krea didn’t move. This  _ had _ to be some sort of joke.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

This time, he answered her candidly.

“You already know.”

Krea nodded. 

It made perfect sense. 

Five of them.

Five was the holy number of Aegea. And five was the sacred number of the Crimson Guard. 

Because they had five leaders.

One for each kingdom.

An Assassin King for each of the five kingdoms. 

Each were the most powerful men in the world. Each of them fought like hell. They were the only ones keeping the people of the Empire alive. To the children of Phimela, they were gods and saviors. They were also the deadliest beings to walk Aegea… 

… and each of the five stood before her.

Brigan watched as she understood everything, recognition pooling across her face.

But he didn’t speak next.

Instead, one by one, each of the remaining four came up to Krea and bowed low, announcing their names.

“Why are you doing that?” Krea whispered as they came one after another. Was it some sort of mockery before they killed her? 

The first one bowed, a man of ordinary looks with russet-brown hair and wild amber eyes streaked with gold. His tattoos peeked out from his shirt, dancing along his tanned chest but never quite touching his neck. His name was August.

The second one came to Krea’s side and bowed, his longer black hair falling over his icy blue eyes ringed in gold. He carried an aura of bitter cold. He was taller than August, and his tattoos snaked around his left wrist and up to his elbow, where his sleeve had been rolled up. His name was Edward.

The third was the largest and most muscled, his swept-up golden hair and star-filled blue-and-golden eyes stunning. He had a thick scar running across his face, from his left brow to the right-hand corner of his lip. Despite his rugged appearance, his eyes were kind. His tattoos, covering the expanse of his shoulder and bicep, were visible through his sweaty shirt. His name was Ellison, though he insisted on being called Ellie.

The fourth was perhaps the most interesting. His dark, reddish hair--almost a deep brown--fell over his brows and reached the bottom of his jaw. His eyes were dark green and speckled with gold. They seemed to flash pale green when his eyes moved. But it wasn’t the odd eyes that caught Krea’s attention, nor the black tattoos that plastered the entirety of his left arm. It was his right arm that makes her stare. 

Displayed by the sleeveless black shirt, his right arm was gone, and in its place was an arm made of pure golden metal. And it wasn’t the unusualness of it that had Krea staring, but the beauty of it. 

The arm was complex, every metal component working together and seemingly…  _ living _ . 

He grinned as he noticed Krea’s bright gaze tearing away from his arm, and winked. His name was Leif.

Brigan came up to her after all the others, bowing low. His golden eyes gleamed, but there was no happiness beneath them. He was tired and--for some reason that she didn’t give a crap about--upset.

“I’m going to kill you,” Krea snarled when he was close. The threat ripped a soft laugh out of him and all of his companions. He tried grinning, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and instead pushed back a loose lock of his short, wavy black hair behind his ears before standing. 

“Everything will make sense soon enough,” he sighed, taking in Krea’s small from--gods, she had never felt so  _ small _ before. “Follow me.”

He didn’t look back as he pushed open a small door at the edge of the room. Krea followed after the four men silently, running her fingers over the maps that lay sprawled on the round tables they’d previously stood around.

When she went through the door, cold air slammed into her. The stone walls and floor grew longer until they opened into a large room filled with five thrones, arranged neatly in a semicircle.

Krea soon realized there was no point in denying it anymore as each of the five men sat in a throne.

August found his home in a stone throne, covered in green moss and brown vines, marked: HOLLYFARE.

The throne made of white marble, and covered in ice was occupied by Edward. It read: RESMIKK.

Ellie found his seat after the other two in a dark, bluish stone throne. It was covered in tinier gold stones, giving it the appearance of thousands of stars against the night sky. His throne read: THE DELLIAN ISLES.

Leif’s throne was terrifying. The entirety of his stone throne, covered in green moss like August’s, was swarming with snakes. 

Krea shivered as she noted the snakes were moving. 

His greenish throne was marked: HYDROS.

Brigan’s throne was the most simple-- and yet most beautiful. His, as Krea had figured, was etched with the name: NORE, and was made of an odd stone. The throne was comprised of pure black stone, the substance shinier than a mirror and streaked with dark purple. It was set with gleaming black gems. Krea swore she saw shadows dancing around his feet as he sat on it.

The five men--Assassin Kings--watched her as she studied the cold, dripping walls. The whole room was no doubt built in a massive cave, the expanse of the cold, wet stone reaching up to the heavens. But no light reached the thrones from outside. Little orbs of luminous gold, wobbling and distorting into various amorphic shapes as they moved, floated on a phantom breeze through the room. How they remained floating in air was one of many questions Krea was not willing to face.

But as beautiful as each of the thrones were, it was the three remaining ones that caught her attention. The final thrones were situated opposite to the rest, elevated and facing the semicircle from a foot above. The largest--in the center of the three--was made purely of rocky, red crystals, each glinting with flecks gold. They stuck out like spikes; the only spot flat enough to sit on was in the center of the throne, which was topped with a black cushion. And most beautiful of all, the blood-red throne was wrapped in black, thorny vines and several red crystal roses.

The two other unoccupied thrones stood on either side of the red throne.

One was made of a lucid silver stone, and etched with a drawing of a massive beast.

The other was made of a pure gold-and-orange rock that reflected the light onto the ceilings, forming patterns of pure fire. Several long and jagged amber crystals fanned out from the back of the throne, forming a semicircle--the pattern looked like the sun’s rays.

Covering the three, unoccupied thrones were words Krea didn’t recognize. They were written in a language older than time itself. She ran her fingers along the words on each of the three as Brigan watched her curiously. 

“What do they say?” Krea asked quietly.

“They’re written in Ancient Norik,” Ellie answered.

Norik was the indigenous language of Nore. Unlike the other kingdoms, Nore was born before the First Empire--its language was unique. Though the rest of the kingdoms adopted the new language, Aegeic, Norians refused to lose their old language. But it had changed over the centuries. Ancient Norik was a language no one understood anymore. It died centuries ago. The dialect of Norian they now spoke was so different from the symbols on the throne.

“Can you read it?” Krea asked Brigan. 

He stared and didn’t answer. 

“What does it say?”

Brigan looked once at Ellie, and then at Leif before answering.

“It has the name of an old god upon it.”

“From the Old Lore?”

“Yes.”

Krea traced her fingers over the words.

“Rosei,” Brigan said, his accent deepening as he spoke in Norian. “It means rose in Ancient Norik, and was the name of one of the five earliest gods of Nore.”

Krea had never found interest in the Old Lore of Nore. It spanned back eons ago, and when her father told her stories of the mythological figures, she never truly believed his words. But the people of Nore still worshipped the gods of the old with their entire hearts--as if they still roamed the world.

“So then that one is Lupeii. The amorphous creature. The first shapeshifter who created mankind and all kinds of creatures.” Krea said, pointing towards the silver one. 

Brigan cocked an eyebrow. “You know the Old Lore?” He watched her curiously, his somber attitude dissipating.

“Barely,” Krea replied. She pointed next to the gold throne. “Lyona. The lioness who created fire and gave it to humans.”

Brigan nodded, and the remaining five Assassin Kings leaned forward as Krea circled the red throne.

“But I never heard the story of Rosei,” Krea murmured. 

“Her story was lost with time,” Brigan answered simply. “But she remains the figurehead of the Crimson Guard. The Guard is as old as Noria itself.”

_ Noria. _ The name of the massive kingdom that spanned the continent before the First Emperor arrived.

“Eagl has no throne,” Krea found herself saying. 

“He was the King of the gods, but he was not kind. He had no throne. The  _ world _ was his throne.”

“And what of Eikos?” Krea asked somberly. “Has he no throne?”

Eikos had always been her favorite in her father’s stories. He was the most human of the gods. He looked like a mortal, but was made of shadows. He had more human emotions than any of the other gods. He was shunned for his emotions--fear, hate, kindness, passion--and forced to reside with the dead. He was also the protector of humankind, but he was never revered by the Norians. In fact, he was despised. But Krea always felt sympathetic for the fallen hero.

Brigan’s eyes sparked with something Krea didn’t understand. He looked slightly surprised.

“Eikos?” he asked coolly.

“Norians hate him, don’t they?” Krea asked, understanding the absence of his throne.

“The more traditional worshippers remember him for who he was. But he is hated. For bringing death.”

Krea nodded. He was perhaps the only part of the Old Lore Krea found realistic. But he was indeed hated.

“Who built these?” She asked in wonder. 

The thrones were brilliant. They were the work of skilled artisans, no doubt. 

“We did,” Brigan said. 

“Our ancestors.” Ellie added, watching her with bright eyes.

“The previous Assassin Kings?” Krea asked.

“Yes,” Ellie replied, glancing over at Brigan.

Krea found herself running her fingers along the red stone again. There were more words written beneath Rosei’s name. Krea ran her fingers over those as well.

“It tells the story of Rosei,” Brigan said.

“Why is it written in Aegaeic?”

“It’s not,” he said sharply. “Read it.”

“No you’re right,” Krea murmured. “I must’ve imagined it.” She traced a finger over the throne again, baffled at the unfamiliar shapes that greeted her.

“What did you see?” Brigan asked. He was leaning forward in his throne. So were his companions.

“I’m not sure.” Krea said softly. “It’s probably because you hit me over the head.” She shot him a Look. He managed to smirk at her. 

_ Gods _ , she wanted to throttle him.

“Why do each of you represent five different kingdoms--the ones made under the First Emperor--if you were created before his arrival?” she asked Ellie instead.

“The Crimson Guard is old,” Ellie said. “Noria was a massive kingdom, and once spanned across the entirety of Aegea. In that time, it was split into five provinces and each had an Assassin King. With the emergence of the First Empire, Noria was reduced to its current size and renamed, but the Guard still represents those five provinces, which are now, under the Empire, different kingdoms. The earliest Assassin Kings ruled from those five places and we continue the tradition and culture of our predecessors out of respect and tradition.”

“You’re all… younger than I expected,” Krea said softly. Most of them seemed only a few years older than her.

“Have you heard the story of heirdom?” Ellie asked.

“No,” she replied. She’d heard of the Old Lore, but never a story about heirdom.

“Well, you might wanna sit down before Ellie starts. His stories can be incredibly  _ long _ ,” Leif snorted. “And  _ boring _ .” He crossed his legs and sent a feral grin at Ellie, who chose to ignore it.

Krea sat down in the red throne, and let out a breath of relief when no one protested. 

August noted her hesitation and sent her an encouraging smile. Krea managed to smile back without fear. He was the least intimidating of them all. His very smile sent warmth through her bones.

The golden-eyed assassin kept up his bored, near-pissed look as Ellie settled into his throne. Brigan’s golden eyes showed nothing as she ran her fingers along the throne. It felt warm and comforting underneath her. Even though everything around her was cold.

“The story of heirdom,” Ellie began loudly, cutting off Leif as he opened his mouth again--likely to snort another insult--“is as old as the Crimson Guard. It’s how each of the Assassin Kings are chosen.

“In the Old Lore, Eikos chose five men to protect mankind. He gave them a mortal body with which to roam Noria. They became the Assassin Kings. Every time they died, they were given another mortal body to fill and complete their duties in. The only way to distinguish the Assassin Kings from common mortals were the heir tattoos, Eikos’s markings, and their gold-hued eyes. Each time an Assassin King’s soul returned to death, Eikos chose a new body for them, painted in his markings.

“Of course, that story in itself is old and muffled and somewhat of a myth. In truth, each Assassin King is born into a kingdom with black tattoos, marking him the next King. Members of the Crimson Guard are sent out to find the baby after an Assassin King dies in the respective territory. Why this phenomenon occurs… no one seems to know.

“When a King is found, their family is showered in riches, and their child is taken into the Guard. They are trained until eighteen--the age they ascend to the throne. Some children are reluctant to be found. They can take years to find.”

Ellie looked pointedly at Brigan.

“After an Assassin King takes his throne, he must serve his people until his death. 

“Originally, the first Assassin Kings were born at similar times--that is, until the Kings died in different ages and the age gap wavered. That’s why we vary in age. In fact, there was much fear of having Assassin Kings of such varying ages in the past--fear of an infant King and an elder one ruling at the same time. In the history of previous Assassin Kings, there are accounts that when one King died, the others would kill themselves so that the next generation would not vary in age.”

August shifted and met Krea’s eyes. She was partially glad to see some fear in his eyes at the thought of sacrifice that made even her sick.

And age gap… indeed they varied in years. But not by much.

“I’m twenty,” Ellie said. “Edward is the oldest among us. He’s twenty-eight. Leif is nineteen. August and Brigan are the youngest. They’re eighteen, and the newest to their thrones. We were all found as children. Once an Assassin King is chosen, he is bound by life to the throne, to his people, and to protecting the Rose.”

“Rose?” Krea asked curiously. She’d heard them talking about some Rose before.

“The Crimson Rose is our leader. In the Crimson Guard, there is a sixth member of the Assassin Kings, except this…  _ member _ is born with  _ different _ tattoos. And she can be… difficult to find. Her tattoos are a different color. Her abilities are harder to anticipate. We haven’t had a Crimson Rose in hundreds of years. At least, one who has agreed to take up the responsibility. It’s always been a choice. Other times, we never find the Crimson Rose. But there is always one alive at any given time in Aegea. Most of the time, they live and they die before we can find them. But you, Krea--”

She was still absorbing his words--the blatant, unaltered facts that he was throwing at her. Her tattoos…  _ they _ were strange. She’d been told to hide them.

The Nightingales had been after her  _ only _ after she’d revealed her tattoos. Someone must have seen.

She knew she was different, but what they were suggesting was--

“You think  _ I’m _ the Rose?” she spat out.

“Krea, we don’t think.  _ We know _ .”

“You’re joking.” She was panicking now, her breath quickening as she realized she could not refute him. That everything he said made sense.

She was born with the damned tattoos.

They were different than the other men’s.

_ My beautiful rose _ , Krea’s father used to call her.

Did he know?

Did he know what she was?

Or was she now pushing things too far?

… Maybe they were too.

But if it was the truth… the responsibility of it all… Ellie had said it had always been a choice, and she didn’t want this responsibility. She’d finally tasted freedom.

“No.” Krea said the words strongly as she realized what he--what they  _ all _ were asking of her. She stood up from the red throne, which she remembered with a sick feeling, was meant to be hers. 

“Krea,” Brigan said gently, rising from his throne.

“I don’t want this,” she repeated her voice growing stronger. “It’s my damned choice isn’t it? I can say no.”

“Krea,” Brigan said again. His deep purple cloak swayed behind him. He stepped forward, but Krea drew away.

“I chose. Tell him, Ellie. Tell  _ me _ . Tell me I have a choice.”

This time Ellie stepped forward.

“Krea, this time things are… different. The world isn’t the same. The Emperor is destroying the Crimson Guard. He’s declared  _ war _ on us. I’m sorry Krea,” he murmured. “If you had been born another time, then perhaps it would have been your choice.”

“No,” Krea repeated again, loudly. She stumbled back. 

She had finally felt freedom from Phimela--from a city of rapists and sadists. 

From the heart of the Empire. 

From death. 

From slaughter. 

She didn’t want to be in a war. She wasn’t ready to be bound again. 

To anyone or anything.

“I-I’m leaving,” she stuttered. But she didn’t know where to go. She’d felt trapped before. She didn’t want to endure that again.

The horrors she’d never spoken of that occurred in Phimela… 

She would not see that slaughter again--the slaughter that quenched some vile pleasure.

She did not want war.

She was freed, with the world laid at her feet to explore.

She would not be bound.

Would not be bound.

Not be bound.

Be bound.

_ Bound. _ She was bound. These people would never let her go.

_ Yes _ , she thought,  _ the Nightingales would have been better. _

Krea suddenly felt as though her lungs were collapsing. She had to get out. Out of this cave, out of this place. She had to see light. She had to be free.

Brigan came to her side. Krea flinched as his warmth hit her.

“Krea,” he whispered. “You can say no, and I’ll take you out of here. Just say it again.”

“ _ Brigan _ ,” Leif warned from behind, rising from his throne.

Say it… and be free again. She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come out, held in by some force she couldn’t fight. She… could not say it again. 

_ You can say no, and I’ll take you out of here. _

The word was caught in her throat.

“Do you want to go out?” Brigan asked softly. 

By now, all five of them were crowded around her. She felt like a pathetic, cornered puppy. 

And Krea didn’t like feeling pathetic.

“I need a walk,” she ground out, feeling returning to her legs. “Outside,” she breathed. She pushed past them, fighting the numbness that threatened to keep her planted under their gazes.

Brigan made to follow her, but August held him back, throwing a tan, speckled arm before Brigan. She would have to thank August later for understanding, but  _ later _ … she was already speaking as if she was not leaving. She stumbled out of the wretched, small cave, and into the hallway. She sauntered past the two guards who tried to help her, until an order snarled from Brigan made them freeze.

Krea wasn’t sure where she was going as she walked forward, or how long she’d been walking until her legs burned and wobbled. A large arm slipped behind her and guided her. Her face burned. Everything did, really.

“Do you want to go out?” the voice asked patiently.

_ Ellie. _

Krea’s throat was dry as she nodded and the arm guided her for another minute before she tasted salt and felt cold air soothe her as it filled her lungs.

She heard--before she saw--the ocean water lapping against the sand. She followed Ellie’s guiding hand, eyes squinted from the pain returning to her head. When she fully opened her eyes at last, Krea found herself staring at the tall green pine trees all around them. 

Ellie walked with her to the shore, and she felt alive again. She never wanted to go back. She’d felt trapped there. It reminded her of Phimela. And she never wanted to go back to that. To the horrors to which she’d been laid victim.

Krea sat in the warm sand as the stars circled above her.

She wasn’t sure what to say to Ellie as he popped down next to her and stared into the starry night. So she thought instead. And then she opened her mouth, finding her voice again as the smell of pine and freedom hit her.

“Is it anything at all like the Dellian Isles?” she asked quietly, her voice less hoarse than she had anticipated. 

The Dellian Isles was claimed to be the most beautiful kingdom in Aegea. It laid to the west and comprised of one large island, and three smaller ones. She’d always wanted to visit it after Nore. She’d wanted to see every kingdom and she had the ability now with her newfound freedom… but could she evade this  _ duty _ that had been piled on her? That adventure was closer than she’d ever imagined when Brigan took her from Phimela. But when she learned of her fate as the Crimson Rose, the dream suddenly felt too far. Like it was within reach, but when she went to grab it, all she found was a fist full of shadows and whispers.

And lies.

She should have told Brigan. A part of her knew that he would have let her go if she’d begged him again. But she owed him didn’t she? And besides, once they found out how terrible she was at sitting still and wearing a crown, they’d probably throw her out anyways.

Ellie grinned at the question she’d asked moments before as he stared into the ocean. His golden, muscled arms shifted as he leaned back into the sand.

“No,” he said. “Nothing can compare to my home.”

“Tell me about it,” Krea whispered in a silent command. She wanted to hear another story. But not one with the Old Lore or the Crimson Guard. She wanted a story of the world she would discover one day.

“Well,” Ellie began, his voice low and quiet, allowing the lapping of water to overpower his words. “The Dellian Isles are like nothing you’ll find in the five kingdoms. In all of the Empire. They’re filled with mountains and forests. There are hundreds of meadows and lakes. It never gets cold there. It’s always summer. And gods, the sky is brilliant. There are millions of stars at night, and the moon shines bright in the sky, a silver circle on a black canvas. The cliffs are made of pure white stone, and the beaches are made of peachy-gray pebbles. The sea is a light green-blue, but at night it transforms into a reflection of the sky. 

“There are these bugs, you see.  _ Goldbugs _ . At night, they turn the dark ocean into a sky. Thousands of goldbugs fill the water and they glow in the shape of little spheres. It makes the water look like it's bursting with stars. And these goldbugs are a species of spider, so they weave through the water a beautiful, glowing silk. And when you look into the water, you can see the orbweavers spinning galaxies and stars and time…”

Krea listened as he told her of his homeland. 

Of everything he was fighting to protect. 

Of the people.

Of the seas.

Of his world.

And for the first night in many nights, Krea found sleep. She did not cry out, did not shake from a single nightmare. The world went still as she slept, her lungs finally burning with the realization.

She was free.

And she would not be bound.


	5. UPDATE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Moved to Wattpad, but I can update here if needed—about half of the entire novel is posted on Wattpad, and I’ll restart updates there if anyone reads and lets me know. I’m more than happy to move the updates here, if requested!) :) thank you!

https://www.wattpad.com/story/253798471?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create_story_details&wp_uname=shadowsinger001&wp_originator=UGgQHn2srKXhAkiylNngb4PX4%2BAzWZShIr6CyJYoygEEPFVFY8L6gds2YdYm0EtCI5BapGcptfh%2FNXOMoWoS51N1I8sQAtrfN1IQFurzPOVXTQCtymPUOhkUb4k9t0OB


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